Purple Daisies
by xstashhjonasx
Summary: Spring was a reincarnation, a rebirth and blossoming from the bitterness and the dreariness of the ugly winter that had passed prior. Spring was about new beginnings; spring was about second chances.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **The characters in this story will be based off the actors who play them. (Example: Emma Watson, Tom Felton, etc.) I still hope you enjoy; the first chapter is always the hardest!

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1<strong>

_Emma liked the color of the sky during the spring._ The sky personified a pure blue, a serene color that created bright days. It was a natural canvas, a realistic canvas, where she could vividly imagine anything and anyone in the vacant horizon.

Emma also liked the warmth of a spring sun. She enjoyed the way the sun radiated specks of light against the dappled freckles across her nose and cheeks. She liked the glow she earned from the sun.

She liked sitting on the blossoming spring grass, too. The grass was healthy, soft, and easy to tug from the roots. She liked to lie on her back, drawing on her sky canvas and feeling the sun's heat breathing on her tranquil body.

In case you haven't noticed, Emma liked spring. It was her favorite season, and for obvious reasons. Spring was a reincarnation, a rebirth and blossoming from the bitterness and the dreariness of the ugly winter that had passed prior. Spring was about new beginnings and bright colors and rejoicing.

Spring was about second chances.

It was mid-March, when the grass was beginning to thaw and the air was beginning to become gentler to the lungs. There were melting patches of ice on the curbs, leaf-less branches on trees, and most civilians in the area were wearing long coats.

But not Emma.

Emma was taking the meaning of spring literal this year. She had unloaded the last of her storage boxes, arranging and rearranging her house essentials until she was comforted with the soothing feeling of calling her new loft her "home". She had cut her hair, a strange yet reckless move on her part, and she was scheduled for a tattoo appointment in about four weeks. This spring, Emma was becoming a different, poised, and much stronger woman.

Her new loft was in a private, elite location in Palo Alto, California. There were two bedrooms, a large bathroom, a spacious living room and kitchen, and a den in which Emma used as her study. There was a grassy hill that led to a small boardwalk which brought her to a beach. It was a new environment, a sunnier environment compared to dreary England, and Emma was … content.

There were about ten cookbooks spewed across her kitchen island of various cultures; there was a television guide where she highlighted all her favorite channels; and there were about twenty notebooks, textbooks, planners, and folders for her History studies. Overlooking at her loft now, she realized there was more to reorganize but she left it alone for now.

Emma, in her high-waist shorts and thin long-sleeved sweater, decided for a breezy stroll to the beach. It was a private area for the richest of California residents; she was free of the media. And for that, she decided to slip on her bathing suit.

She had trouble remembering where she had stored her beach accessories, and nearly destroyed her entire bedroom looking for a very simple navy blue one-piece that slightly accentuated both breasts and soft curves of her subtle hips. She grabbed the nearest book she could find and set out into the new, refreshing California sun.

The nearer she approached the coastline, the chillier the air seemed. She braced herself for the worst, slipping off her shorts gracefully, and dipping her small toes into the shore. Yes, the water was frighteningly cold.

No, Emma Watson was not going to give up. It was part of her spring rebirth plan; she was going to face the consequence of all that she put herself through. Buying her loft was the first challenge, and she succeeded. Swimming in mid-March was her next. Except …

Emma wasn't an expert swimmer.

Since she was a little girl, the open ocean seemed to make her a bit antsy, a bit anxious; like spiders were crawling in her bones. She never liked being carried out farther, especially to the depths were she could no longer reach. Her mother had taken her to private swimming lessons in pools and oceans, but she loathed every session she attended. She couldn't tell a breaststroke from a backstroke, anyway.

Yet, Emma walked into the low-tide ocean with its gentle bumps of waves until she could no longer feel the warmth of her feet, her legs, or her lower abdomen. She was numbed by the icy feel, the frigidity making her teeth chatter and her lips vibrating to keep some sort of movement in her body.

She moved out further until her chin was touching the surface of the water. On her toes now, toes that had no warmth executing through them, she took one more balanced step and her nose touched the surface. Closing her eyes, she ducked her head into the arctic-like ocean while bending her knees a bit. She remembered the swimming lessons with her mother: _Breathe through your nose._

She puffed out her cheeks like a chipmunk, allowing water and oxygen to pass to and fro from the corners of her mouth. She lowered herself until she could sit on the sandy bottom of the ocean. She tilted her head back, opening her eyes where the sun reflected to the top of the ocean.

_One . . ._

_ Two . . . _

Emma counted the seconds with her blood rushing to her ears. She counted the seconds until she felt her lips darken into a bloody purple, resembling the flesh of a blood orange; she counted until she had trouble flexing the bones of her hands.

_Five . . ._

_ Six . . ._

Emma heard the gentle pounding of her heart just above her ribcage. It was a calming, deep drone that vibrated in sound waves to reach her clouded ears. The rhythm, the pattern of her heartbeat sounded like the beat of an African drum. _Dum . . . da-dum . . . dum . . . da-dum . . ._

_ Ten . . ._

_ Eleven . . ._

Feeling her lungs run dry, Emma plunged back to the surface. With a huff of a fresh breath, she walked with frozen legs back to the shore. Emma had no idea what possessed her to want to swim in mid-March, or hear the pattern of her heartbeat on the ocean floor, but it made her feel . . . reckless, _fearless_. It made her feel like she was invincible; like she could do whatever her mind set out to do.

She had forgotten a towel, but that was okay. She walked up the deserted boardwalk and into her backyard. She looked up at the vacant, perfectly blue sky. And then Emma received her next idea.

Emma was going to learn out to paint.

**oOo**

_Emma's first month in Palo Alto was painfully quiet. _Emma hated silence, and _hate_ was always one of the few words she used excessively. But the sound of silence, the drone in her ears, made her skin crawl and her body shake and her hands fold into fists. She hated when her loft was eerily silent, when the television was turned off. She _loathed_ when people held their tongue instead of telling her the truth. Needless to say, the sound of silence (an oxymoron, isn't it?) made her feel like she was becoming insane; like a mental patient in a solitary ward.

Despite the silence in her loft, Emma slowly but surely became acquainted with Palo Alto. She became familiar with a few of the local neighbors, many of which were quite famous in Hollywood.

She had met Zac Efron at a local bistro as she zoomed through about four to six books about art, paint, paint brushes, and the like. He was nothing but friendly and courteous; he had bought her a latte and offered to show her around. He, too, was new to the area after his breakup with Vanessa. Emma, however, avoided any discussion on love, heartache, breakups, and whatnot. Her heart was not prepared for that.

The house to the left was bigger than Emma's, and it belonged to Katie Cassidy. Emma was startled by her beautiful looks, and the simplicity of her voice. She may have looked like a Barbie doll, but she was intelligent and witty and quite sarcastic. Several times, she surprised Emma with Thai takeout and loads of DVDs for the night. They ended up sharing tales (Emma, as with Zac, avoided discussion on love) until their heads rolled back and sleep overcame them.

The house to the right was also seemingly larger than Emma's guileless home, and Katie Cassidy had smiled dreamily on the 31st of March as she took a plentiful bite of pizza. "They've been here since forever. You know James Franco? Dave Franco? They _live_ there."

A name like James Franco was notoriously, wildly popular in Hollywood, in England … in the _world_. She didn't know if Katie was capable of lying or not, but there was a sincerity in her shimmering blue eyes that made Emma believe her hopelessly. Ironically so, after taking a bite from her crust while flipping through her magazine in her lap, a photo of James Franco appeared.

"He's gorgeous," Katie giggled, snatching the magazine. "His brothers, Tom and Dave, are just as handsome. They're a sweet family . . . I haven't seen them in a couple of weeks . . . but . . ."

Since Emma's move to Palo Alto, she had never once seen any of the Franco family members. They were obviously busy people, people who had worthy careers and worthy names to keep up with. And so, that was the last time Emma worried about them. She was perfectly fine in her albeit quiet home, with Zac and Katie as her new friends, while keeping her mind occupied by practicing drawing and painting, cooking, and (when no one was by the shore) swimming in the cold ocean.

Yes, Emma was practicing drawing and painting. She had purchased at least ten to fifteen quality books on art and paint and art history (all of the books were now taking a day off in her wall-covering bookshelf) and, when she felt like an idle day was coming her way, she whipped out a fresh canvas and practiced her strokes, her hues, her shades, and all the techniques she had read about. Though it was a new hobby she had collected, Emma felt her blood pressure become calm whenever she sat in front of the blank canvas; and she liked the adrenaline rush she felt when she felt inspiration appear on the television, in a book, on a graphic T-shirt, or in the blank sky. Art was just what she needed to get her mind off of … _him._

It was early April, early spring, and the final ice patches had melted. Leaves were blossoming on trees; flowers were blooming in gardens; and Emma's toes were breathing in spring air as she was beginning to wear sandals each day to keep her feet from being suffocated in closed shoes. Spring made Emma smile and, despite the eerie silence that overcame her loft when Zac and Katie weren't around, she was beginning to accept the events of the year prior.

She had an Italian cookbook wide open (risotto with arugula and baby scallops) on her kitchen island; her hair, thank _goodness_ she had chopped her hair into a pixie cut! Her apron was stained with olive oil; her face was flushed from the steam of the steaming skillet, but the dinner was progressively becoming successful. She had the table in her small dining room set for four—she, Katie, Zac, and a guest friend of Katie's named Miley. _Miley Cyrus._ Emma wasn't one to openly be intimidated, but her evening guests were just as popular worldwide as she was. And for that, Emma wanted this meal, her first "dinner party" in Palo Alto, to be a winner.

It wasn't until she poured herself a second helping to her Pinot Grigio after checking the grilled salmon in the oven when the doorbell rang over the loud recording of _Saturday Night Live_; she didn't like cooking in silence.

With her brows furrowed together, she murmured underneath her breath, "They're here too early," before rushing to the front door. It was still early evening, and the sun was slowly descending below the horizon, creating a dappled purple-and-orange glow to the sky.

No one was at the door.

Her eyes fell at the vacant private court; Katie's house was empty. She was meeting Miley at Zac's. The private area was only occupied by a man sitting on the Franco's porch. He had a lit cigarette resting idly between his lips, his head hunched over what appeared to be a sketchbook. He looked like he hadn't moved a muscle. He looked like James Franco.

And then, Emma's eyes looked down to her feet. Resting by her toes was a small pot of daisies … _purple_ daisies. Her spine curled involuntarily; her hands scooped the pot with delight. It was her first gift, even if she had no idea who the giver was. In the dirt was a small note. After closing the door, and silencing the television in the midst of a comical skit, Emma read the note aloud to herself:

_Emma—_

_The color purple represents purpose; use your imagination to the fullest, rebalance your life, and use these purple daisies as a reminder to overcome depression._

Whoever sent Emma Watson these purple daisies seemed to know exactly what she really needed. _A constant reminder._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Please review!

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 2<strong>

_Emma could not focus. _

It was two in the morning, but her eyes were still forcing themselves to stare blankly at the television; the television that was loudly playing an encore presentation of _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. _She had laughed at herself at midnight, just after slipping on her pajamas, for reliving these memories. Yet, the longer she kept her eyes glued to the plasma screen, the longer she yearned to relive the memories of _him_, with _him_.

It was Dumbledore's death scene and, although she had accepted the Headmaster's faith, that didn't make it easier for her heart to watch him fall gracefully, like dancing snowflakes, off the Astronomy Tower. Clutching the pillow in her lap, she winced loudly as she heard Alan Rickman (or, in the case of the film, _Severus Snape_) mutter the Killing Curse.

And Dumbledore was dead.

When _his_ face reappeared on her screen, Emma reached clumsily for the remote; she decided on a comedy, _Couples Retreat_, except she was barely watching the film any longer—her eyes had slowly drifted to the kitchen windowsill, where the ceramic pot of purple daisies rested. She had thrown out the note, but she remembered every word as if each syllable was embedded, burned into her memory and flesh.

_Use these purple daisies as a reminder to overcome depression._

Emma was _not_ depressed. There were signs that signified if she was clinically depressed. She had not developed a loss of interest in personal activities; she did not have a sudden weight loss; and there were definitely no thoughts of suicide ingrained somewhere in her busybody mind of hers. She would _know_ she was depressed, right? She should _feel_ it in her bones, in her heart, in her stomach … just like she had felt an infatuation, then a burning love, when she was briefly with _him_.

_Rebalance your life._

Moving to Palo Alto was just one of the things she did to collate her livelihood; developing new hobbies and interests were, too. These were the things she needed as a steady distraction, to keep her mind away from the nostalgia.

Emma threw her pillow to the other length of the couch, using the pads of her fingers to rub her throbbing temples. Like always, she was thinking _too_ much, feeling _too_ much, and remembering _too_ much. And for this, her head began to palpitate. She could feel the constant pressure against the pads of her fingers.

_A constant reminder. _She was able to keep a steady smile throughout dinner with Katie, Zac, and Miley just by simply glancing at the colored daisies. Katie had gawked excitedly at the sight of them, teasing and playfully smacking Emma's upper arm with delight.

_ "Who are these from? Your secret admirer?"_

Emma refused to think of secret admirers as she gulped down a glass of water, feeling the silkiness of the purple petals between her fingers. A secret admirer was a pathetic excuse for misleading passion. She had been enticed by _him_ and look at her now; she had moved away from the only home she had ever known, cut her hair, and started to _swim_. They were such impulsive, reckless moves and she blamed _him_ for it.

No.

Emma placed the glass in the sink, staring out the kitchen window. In this direction she faced James Franco's home. Only one light was on in the entire house; there was a dimly lit bedroom and she saw a shadowed body moving silently in the house. The person was smoking; dark smoke trickled out of the open window.

Emma refused to point the finger at others for her decisions and her motives. This was what she wanted to do; and what she wanted was to be left alone, to start over, and to not look over her shoulder at the messy past she had left behind. She wanted to open bigger doors and walk independently down her own roads, the paths she chose to follow. She was not going to divert back to accusations and admonish _him_ for things he had no involvement in.

Her house was, as always, frighteningly silent when she tiptoed into her bedroom. She nearly tripped over open cookbooks and art history textbooks. She left the television on mute, watching the nonverbal movements of Lisa Kudrow and Jennifer Aniston. She had to admit, after snuggling herself into a comfortable position, _Friends_ wasn't that amusing unless the volume was up.

Her window was open and, despite the warm spring afternoons, April nighttimes were surprisingly cold. She curled her toes inwardly, ignoring the cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. Who could be possibly be messaging her at two in—_ah. Englanders. _After all, it was ten A.M. in London.

Despite the heaviness weighing in her eyes, Emma reached blindly for her phone. The number had been deleted from her contacts, but she mentally memorized _his_ phone number. Curiosity got the best of her; she opened the message and read to herself with a hand on her forehead:

_ It's a bit early for invitations, but on the 1st of August I'm hosting a party in L.A. Hope you can make it. – Tom_

Emma chucked her cell phone across the wall, the blood in her veins suddenly boiling at a higher temperature than moments prior. She had not worried about _him_ since November, since the first part of the final movie installment. Why the sudden urge to make peace? There was no need for it; it was _his_ decision, _his_ choice to leave her to the side.

After several huffs of air, another glance at Courtney Cox, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke from the next house over, Emma's eyes suddenly drifted shut. She fell into a dreamless sleep once again in her eerily quiet home.

**oOo **

_April rolled into May and soon enough, June was already slipping between Emma's fingers. _Her friendships with Katie, Zac, and Miley had strengthened; she had swam farther out and listened to her heartbeat at the ocean floor; and her cooking and painting skills improved tremendously. Needless to say, Emma became a bit of a _"social butterfly"_ in Palo Alto. She hosted several dinner parties with Katie and Zac and a group of their diverse friends. It gave her mind a rest, and it gave her time to mentally, physically, and emotionally prepare herself for the ending of the _Harry Potter_ installment.

The beginning of the July meant packing and visiting London, England. Emma didn't know if there was any room in her heart to return, to relive several moments of closure with the cast members. They were the people she had confided her deepest secrets with; they were the people who she would sacrifice anything for. And yet, as she packed her small carry-on bag with her laptop and everyday essentials for the plane, it felt … _different_. Weird. Uncomfortable. It didn't settle correctly in her heart after she zipped up her luggage.

Emma had the television playing _The Ugly Truth _and the radio blasting Britney Spears as she whipped up a quick tuna melt on rye for lunch. Katie was in Los Angeles for the week, Zac was out filming, and Miley was touring. She was alone in Palo Alto, but she liked her independence and she was satisfied with the silence in her loft.

Since the first pot of purple daisies, four others had arrived at her doorstep—without the physical being of the giver present and with the exact same note as the first. Each time the flowers arrived, in the neatly organized pot, Emma refused to ask questions or raise suspicions. She merely placed them on the windowsill in the kitchen; and she enjoyed glancing at them and running her fingers against the silky violet petals. It gave her a little lift for the day. It gave her, like the note said, _purpose._

The week before, Katie had asked about the daisies. She had given Emma a quirky grin, with her arched brows rising higher into her forehead. Emma had shaken off the skepticism with a simple shrug and an even simpler response:

_"They just show up on my doorstep."_

And so, if using the daisies as an excuse was working, Emma believed herself to be … healing. No, she refused to think she was ever depressed. But she was no longer sulking, no longer pointing the finger at the wrong person. She merely accepted her faults and accepted what consequences were coming her way.

She wondered what would happen if the daisies stopped coming to her doorstep. What "constant reminder" would she have then? She had first scheduled an appointment for a tattoo after her move to California and canceled after the third arrival of the daisies. But there would be a time when Emma would feel wholly and the giver would realize the daisies would be no longer necessary. For that, Emma kept _"Get a small tattoo in a subtle location on the body"_ on her To-Do list.

Overall, Emma felt like her life was suddenly going to fulfill itself the way she hoped it would before _he_ had stepped into the picture. She suddenly felt like this was for her; no one else but her, enjoying her tuna melt on rye while humming along to the Britney Spears tune.

Those were her thoughts before the doorbell rang.

Those were her thoughts before, once again, Emma's life fell out of loop.

**oOo**

_Emma didn't know what was more enticing: _seeing James and Dave Franco on her couch, or seeing _James and Dave Franco on her couch._

The moment she had opened the door, she knew she was in a dream; she knew everything had gone blurry, like her vision was failing her, and all she needed to do was give a hard pinch on her arm to wake her up from the Wonderland that was just about to walk into her door. She had stood at the front door with her mouth agape, her eyes frozen at the two men grinning at her, her knees suddenly wobbly.

They had introduced themselves with a simple wave and asked if they could come in for a moment. The younger of the two, Dave, did most of the talking; he apologized profusely for not meeting her sooner, reminding her that they were her neighbors to the right.

Dave asked politely if he could change the channel; the theme song to _That 70s Show _came blaring out of the television. Emma cleared her throat, forgetting her manners (all of the etiquette she practiced for her dinner parties fell out of her ass the moment she opened the door), and asked if they would like something to drink or eat. The remains of the tuna melt on rye were still on her kitchen island; her mouth watered, but her throat was itching to gawk excitedly at the Franco brothers on her couch.

That's when James Franco first spoke. And God help her, Emma knew that he sounded just as sexy as he looked in the magazines on her coffee table.

"Are those … purple daisies?"

In the middle of pouring the freshly squeezed lemonade, Emma froze. All the warmth in her body turned icy and her heart raced unexpectedly fast. _He's just asking a simple question_, Emma thought to herself hastily. _He might not have seen purple daisies before!_

She handed him a glass of lemonade and then one to Dave, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to face them. "They were a gift," she explained hoarsely.

James raised a brow thoughtfully. Emma could smell the lingering fragrance of cologne mixed with the faint trail of cigarette burns. It was utterly alluring; Emma gulped down some sweet lemonade to keep her throat sour, to keep her body from swooning. She had hardly realized he was still speaking.

"Doesn't the color purple represent purpose?"

Emma silently let her brown eyes meet his. He had a ghost of a smile drawn on his face, a quirkily lopsided grin toying with Emma's sudden suspicions. _What did he know? _Dave looked completely lost, and decided to pronounce his love for Mila Kunis on the show. However, Emma continued to gaze at James with a stoic, yet painfully puzzled, expression. And James … James winked an eye at Emma and let her keep her uncertainty until he asked another question:

"You obviously know Tom Felton quite well, right?"

"Tom is … an old friend from _Harry Potter_," Emma explained quietly, her throat choking out the words 'old friend'. "I guess it's safe to say I know him decent enough."

Her heartstrings gave an everlasting tug, a final yearning, and she covered up her pain by finishing off her lemonade with a thirsty gulp. She cleared away the glasses without looking at either one of them, but she felt James's brown eyes burning holes into her back. She may not have a clue about who he was, but one thing was for sure: James was not stupid; he could fit the puzzle pieces together.

"James and Tom did a movie together," Dave added in enthusiastically, helping himself to a magazine on the table. _Cosmopolitan_. "It comes out next month. _The Rise of the Planet of the Apes_. I know, long ass title but apparently it's the—"

"There's a party in Los Angeles for it," his brother cut him off in his husky, informative voice. His tone was soft … welcoming. Emma bit down on her lip to fight the urge to squeal in his face like a crazily eccentric fan. Instead, she raised her brows as a gesture to continue. Once more, James gave her his thoughtful, slow grin. "I take it you were invited?"

Emma nodded carefully, and wondered how in the world she could get the topic of Tom out of the loop. Avoiding James's gentle stare, she looked over at Dave, who was reading through several articles in another issue of _Cosmopolitan_. "I hear you guys have been in Palo Alto your whole lives. Care to show me around to see what I've missed?"

**oOo**

_Jesus Christ; she was back in London. _She was in her hotel room, staring blankly at the Oscar de la Renta ball gown, with its beaded bodice and tulle skirt. She toyed with the tulle fabric between her fingers idly, trying to tune out the sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the windows of the hotel. There were two days left until the final premiere … and it was raining.

Rain, in many cultures, generally meant rejoicing … rebirth. Like Emma's spring that had come and gone in full force. It also symbolized sadness and cleansing; purification.

Impatiently thinking this thought, Emma sighed in frustration and dropped her purse onto her hotel bed. So what the _hell_ was early rain before the final premiere foreshadowing? Was she going to cleanse away her passion, her amour, for _him_? Was she going to rejoice with the cast members, smiling instead of sobbing?

Emma's cell phone rang simultaneously as there was a knock on the hotel room door. She ignored the call, predicting it to be Zac or Katie, or even Dave Franco, and instead of opening the door heard the deep voice of Matt Lewis:

"Emma, get ready! We're all having dinner at the hotel restaurant. Be there in about an hour." She heard his footsteps fade away, and her cell phone was still ringing.

She knew it; it was Zac, probably checking to see if her flight was okay. She let the call go to voicemail, flopping herself down on the edge of the mattress. Emma didn't feel … _in the mood _to talk to her friends in Palo Alto. And with that thought, she scoffed pathetically.

Yes, she had made _friends_, but she didn't particularly know if one of them could be called her _friend_. She knew his name was James; that he had just turned thirty-three, and that he had about nine other occupations besides generally acting. They had not had any other conversations except the films he played, the people he met, and Emma liked it that way. She didn't want to delve deeper into secrets, or private conversations, like _love_ and _breakups_.

The funny thing was, James stared at her with amusement when she handed him a burger she had grilled on the barbeque she had recently bought (again, impulsive move) and, sitting across from him on the patio table, told him frankly: "I'd rather not discuss boyfriends, girlfriends … or partners in general."

He left that particular conversation looming in the air, and Emma sometimes felt that heavy burden resting on her shoulders; like a dark cloud, waiting to explode with a rainstorm. But Emma would bite her tongue, and ignore the little twist of her intestines when he told her he was meeting someone … someone named Ahna.

In the London hotel room, while flipping through possible outfits for dinner, Emma refused to believe it was jealousy. How could she be _jealous_? She hardly talked to James; it was merely staring, smiling, and vague, random comments that sometimes got her laughing and sometimes heartily amused her. They would sit across, or next to, each other by the shore and stare at the horizon. There was hardly anything to be jealous over; although he was fantastically an attractive, undeniably sexy man. If she knew better, he was taken.

_Besides,_ Emma told herself while applying lip gloss, _the last thing I need is a relationship. I don't want one. I don't _need_ one._

However, Dave and Emma had hung out twice before she departed for London. He was wildly entertaining and, when Katie caught sight of them walking down the boardwalk, confessed to Emma he thought Katie Cassidy was _"pretty cute"_. He was generally funny, random, and had a lot of spunk. He reminded Emma of a squirrel; he had the attention span of a squirrel.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the door opened. In came Bonnie Wright and Evanna Lynch. They squealed in delight at the Oscar de la Renta gown before spotting Emma struggling to zip her dress. When Evanna came to her rescue, she whispered quietly, "Jade's going to be there."

_Think of the purple daisies in Palo Alto._

_ Think of the next dinner party you'll host—maybe you'll invite the Franco brothers._

_ Think of purpose, of rebalancing your life, of overcoming depression—_

_ I'm not depressed!_

_ Just don't think of Jade._

_ Don't think of Tom._

_ Remember, Emma, _she thought hopelessly while fighting back the burning feel of tears, _he doesn't love you anymore. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Please review! I would appreciate constructive criticism. :-)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 3<strong>

_What Emma needed was a strong drink. _

What she needed was something to calm the throbbing vein in her temple; something to soothe the nerves jittering about her stomach, in her circulating blood, and in her traumatized heart.

What she needed was something that burned all the emotions knotted in her throat to be swallowed down into her stomach.

She needed _something_ to wash away all her emotions; until all was left was a blank brain and numbness around her muscles.

In other words: Emma wanted to get drunk.

**oOo**

_It started with the shortening of her short name. Em;_ not Em_ma_. That was enough for an introduction to make Emma's stomach lurch; enough to get the muscles in her lips to forcefully smile to convince them that she was perfectly capable of being in the same vicinity as him.

His girlfriend was polite and courteous. Her name was Jade, but Emma liked to call her … _her_. The cast mates could feel the climax building between _her_ and Emma across from each other; especially when Jade excitedly decided to squeal with delight and reach out to grab Emma's hand as a friendly gesture.

"Tom's told me so much about you!"

Emma's heart fell straight through her ass several times during the dinner, and each time she had to excuse herself to the loo. Each time she was there, she washed her trembling hands and dabbed her damp fingertips against her cheeks gently; just enough to keep her body temperature cool.

By the time the waiter had brought the desserts, Emma had to officially excuse herself from the table. She had felt _his_ eyes racing to meet hers, but she looked apologetically over to the older members of the cast; she explained that her flight was long and she was in dire need of sleep for the final London premiere. And although _she_ held onto _his_ upper arm and revealed she would be there too, Emma kindly ignored her.

Once she was in her hotel room, she threw her clutch across the room; a vase shattered to its ceramic pieces on the floor. But Emma hardly had time to even get out of her Louboutins before collapsing onto the edge of the mattress; just in time for the explosion of tears to rip through her chest, leap through her heart, and trickle down her face like burning lava melting her cheeks.

She didn't understand _why_ she was wasting her time, crying over _him_, crying over what _could have been_. She refused to waste precious tears over someone who had moved on; someone who was clearly and irrevocably in love with another girl—and then she remembered.

_The purple daisies._

What would the daisies think? She had spent a little over three months building up her lost confidence, while finding herself in the blur she called life. They had been her lifesaver; just a simple glance boosted her esteem to get through the day in Palo Alto. Yet without them, a part of her was missing. There was no purpose; she didn't have her conscience motivating her. Instead, she was moving backwards into the past; right to the hell she had once found herself in with Tom.

_Tom._

Once, she loved Tom. It wasn't a petty, puppy love that she confessed as a true love just because he was her co-star. No, when Emma had him in her arms … she had felt sparks, like she was being electrocuted in water; like she was drowning, but he gave her gills. It was innocent and intimate, secretive and surprising. It was a tale for the two of them; they had left their rendezvous for only them. No one knew. And for awhile, Emma liked it that way.

However, Emma wished to brag. She wanted to boast proudly about the dozen roses he had sent her; how he took her to the beach at midnight for a preview of the fireworks show. She wanted to confess to Bonnie and Evanna how Tom knew all her ticklish places and how he knew she liked being kissed on the nape of the neck. Most importantly, she wanted to brag about how much they loved each other.

Their relationship was not physical. For this, Emma admitted to being a bit naïve, a bit childish, and a bit ignorant. She wanted a corny, romantic, and special evening with Tom before letting him take her "flower"; her innocence. She wanted the right moment to approach them like a whisper; no warning, but they would both be ready for it. _Together._

Their relationship never reached the bedroom. There was no sex, period. Sometimes, she regretted it, because she wanted to fall asleep with him lying by her side. Other times, she convinced herself into believing it was the right decision for her. And she was glad that, despite the secrecy and the virginity issue, Tom had stuck with her. And he confessed his love moments after.

They said "I love you" too many times. Every chance they got, the three words, the three syllables, were constantly thrown into the conversation. She never got sick saying the words, but thinking of it now made her ill to the stomach.

Emma had once believed she and Tom could prove them wrong; that the physical aspect in a relationship—the seduction, foreplay, sex—didn't need to be in the equation for the scale to balance. She wanted to prove to others that it was a personal moral, a lifestyle for self-respect and feeling _worthy_ to the right man. She wanted to use her and Tom as an example to advise Bonnie for her own relationship; but they were still in hiding, and no one was raising suspicions.

But Tom, after six months in concealment, was beginning to get impatient.

Emma had done all that she could in six months to keep his mind from wandering to the bedroom. She had done all she could to make her look and feel like a woman, while still technically being an innocent schoolgirl. She had done all she could to still make Tom love and need her; she provided for him, in ways girls without dignity and self-respect didn't understand. She was proud of this knowing factor, but hiding a relationship on set of a movie was harder than it seemed.

It was 2009; the last day on set for _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_. Emma had been sent to the hair and makeup department with Evanna, when she bumped into _her_—a shockingly stunning stunt coordinator with a tag on her chest that read _HELLO, MY NAME IS JADE_. The brunette smiled pleasantly at Emma as the makeup artist began to work her type of magic. But the coordinator, Jade, folded her arms and leaned over the counter, observing the table of concealer, blush, lipsticks, and the like.

"By any chance, do you happen to know if Tom Felton is seeing anyone exclusively?"

Emma had practiced the shock moments before with Tom; they had to be exquisite actors to feel undisturbed when another showed an interest to their partner. So Emma sipped her water calmly, shrugged her shoulders indifferently, and nonchalantly replied in a monotonous voice, "Beats me."

The stunt coordinator peered over her shoulder; Tom had passed the hair and makeup department, making rounds to change into character. Then, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled brightly at Emma. "I think I just might give it a go … It's worth a shot, isn't it?"

She was gone before Emma could change her mind.

Two weeks later, Emma had lit fire to every picture of her and Tom; she had thrown all the clothes he had left at her apartment in the trash; and she confessed to her other co-stars what had happened. She had told them that Tom was interested in another woman; that he no longer loved her; and that she was going to be just fine.

_Fine._

_"Fine" _was a disgusting word; Emma loathed it just as much as she loathed the sound of silence. It was a word for liars and cover-uppers; a word that basically meant _"No, I'm not fucking fine at all. Actually, I feel like I'm dying and that I'm not good enough for anyone in the world. But I'd prefer to tell you I'm _fine_ just so that I wouldn't have to express and feel all the other emotions that come along with the pain in my heart. So … I guess I'm _fine_ to you."_

Sitting in her London hotel room, she heard her cell phone buzz again. The screen glowed with the name _Dave Franco _across it. But the mini fridge in the corner seemed more appealing. So, managing to slip out of her dress, she walked across the room to grab a shot glass. Whatever the liquor was, it burned the entire way down her throat. Nevertheless, it numbed the feelings she was brewing in her heart and blood; she reached for her phone, but didn't say anything. She heard her Palo Alto friend breathe hesitantly through the phone; she tried to smile, but her lips cracked.

"Emma?"

It wasn't Dave. It was James. He sounded a lot sexier halfway across the world; his voice was a lot deeper. It was tender and mellow, and it sounded like he was puffing a cigarette. Even sexier.

She downed her second shot, bringing the liquor bottle and the shot glass over to her bed. Less pain; more numbness.

"Emma?" This time, it was louder, to grab her attention. She gave a little scoff to let him know she was on the line; he sighed in relief. His next question was one she expected the morning of the final premiere: "Are you okay?"

She laughed despite the pain and fury settling in her stomach. She coiled her hands around the liquor bottle, her tongue comatose.

"I'm _fine_."

**oOo**

_James hated when women cried. _He felt his stomach contort and his heart sink whenever he heard a woman crying over something that never really pertained to him. Yet, somehow, he felt like it was his fault the girl was crying uncontrollably in the phone, halfway across the word, in a London suite.

It was a natural instinct that made him use Dave's iPhone to call her. He wanted to hang up after the first ring, but for some reason the gloomy Cali day made him feel unsure about her. So he wanted to know how she was feeling; he knew about her and Tom, after all. She was just not aware of that.

Tom had told him everything that had happened between him and Emma awhile filming _The Rise of the Planet of the Apes_. He told him from the male mind; the reasons why he saw it necessary to break Emma's heart. And James sat there; a cigarette and book in his hands, listening silently to Tom confess his feelings: He loved Emma, but he was in love with another woman. Tom, while wringing his hands together, explained profusely that he never wanted to hurt Emma. But he wanted to look out for her, anonymously.

Well, James knew the feeling of being in love with another woman. He knew the complexity, and the _stupidity_, of the common situation: Who did he love more? More importantly, _why?_ In the end, James knew the most mature way to handle his matter was not to be selfish. In the end, he left both women. He laughed now, taking a drag from the cancer-stick, and realized neither woman today was worth his time.

He felt pity for Tom when they sat in his trailer, the radio playing The Ramones. He felt pity not because he knew the situation fairly well, but because he had broken one heart: Emma's. And since April, James had seen Emma thoroughly enough to say that her healing process was taking longer than anyone would have expected.

That's where the daisies had come into perspective.

James wasn't going to take credit; it was Tom's idea. Tom wanted Emma to heal from his anonymity; he wanted her to move on, but still have a part of him with her without Emma really knowing. So James and Tom researched the simplest flowers for a simple, yet extraordinary, girl and the color best suited for Emma's grief: Purple was the way to go.

Tom told him just one pot of daisies. So James placed them there, nonchalantly on his front porch when Emma came out in an apron. He had smiled when she went back inside; she was taking on new interests. He liked that; a girl who was simply never bored and always occupied.

A few weeks later, another pot of purple daisies. And another, and another. It had become James's secret obsession, making sure Emma was healing, because he knew the feeling of breaking a girl's heart. So he wanted to be in the shadows, watching her rebuild herself. He didn't want to be the reason for her heart to fall apart again.

It was a relief that Dave wanted to meet the new neighbor, albeit four months later. She was beautiful up front and personal, but James stayed away. He saw, the first day he was in her loft, a tuna melt on rye on the kitchen island. On the windowsill, the purple daisies.

She had his number, but their friendship wasn't as exclusive as her and Dave's. Where she and Dave went bowling; went to private parties; went to lunch with Katie Cassidy, Zac Efron, and Miley Cyrus; and went to the mall, he and Emma sat outside on her new patio set and gazed at the horizon in silence. If it wasn't that, they sat on her couch and read separate books, miles apart on her very comfy couch. They rarely talked and, when they did, he noticed that Tom was never mentioned in her _Harry Potter _stories.

He probably stayed three hours on the long distance call, hearing her sob and sniff and moan from the cramping of her lungs. It hurt him; he must've inhaled four cigarettes in that time frame. The sun was nearly rising in Palo Alto when Emma's tears had calmed and she found the last breath to ask him a slurred question. He could almost _smell_ the alcohol through the phone.

"Why does it h-h-hurt so _badly? _Seeing him w-with … with _her?_"

His hand gripped tighter around Dave's iPhone. He shrugged and, as if Emma could see his action, she grew into another fit of tears. She had no idea he knew; she was drunk and venting sober thoughts. It needed to be in the open and he wasn't going to tell a soul.

"Emma," he coughed out, burning out his fifth cigarette, "you've been healing … Don't let him get to you." He sucked at advice. _Sucked so badly._

"It hurts!" she screamed into the phone. James winced, but kept the line going. It was progress, whether she was sloshed or not. "It wasn't supposed to be this way!"

James's jaw clenched; the words were too familiar, too identical to Ahna's that his temples throbbed. _It wasn't supposed to be like this, James. But I can't do this anymore. We should see other people._

"Well," he replied patiently through gritted teeth, "you can't always get what you want."

**oOo**

"_How many of those did you drink?"_ came Matt Lewis's weary voice and perplexed, thinned-out face. Emma turned rather quickly, giving her co-star a bit of a startle, and touched his upper arm with a firm grip. "Are you sure you're—"

"Matt," Emma shot out through gritted teeth, "if you're going to ask me if I'm okay, I'd rather you not. _Please_."

He took the hint rather quickly, unlike Rupert and Dan, who had jumped Emma's throat during the press conference the day before. It was to the point where she escaped to the bathroom once again—a haven of some sort, but she was grateful that it was sanitized and smelled like clean laundry, not like crap—and refused to come out to say goodbye before the rest of the cast members went to the hotel for an early lunch. She had locked herself in the farthest stall, the handicapped stall, her eyes swollen from the consistent tears that trickled down her rosy cheeks. She had ignored the cell phone calls, ignored Evanna and Bonnie desperately asking her to come out ("He left, the coast is clear!"), and even ignored the enticing offer Helen McCrory made in front of her bathroom stall ("I'm holding a box of chocolates and I'm sure my mini fridge in the suite has some ice cream!").

Despite the useless tears over _him_, the final London premiere had been so nostalgic and so heartbreaking that Emma had tossed about three shots of whatever liquor came her way at the premiere's after party. Her tears had subsided, but her bitterness had definitely not. She had put on her Noh mask earlier, after the nostalgic tears with the cast members on the red carpet, in front of Evanna and Bonnie to show how _fine_ she truly was. She even danced with Helen and Helena, later with Matt, and finally with Bonnie. She threw in several fits of coy giggles, hugged her best mates, and even told them of the fun she was having in Palo Alto. Thinking of Katie, of Zac, of Miley, and of the Franco brothers made her heart swell with a strange twinge of joy. She missed them.

Wait.

Well, she definitely missed Katie and Zac—they had called her about forty times each to check up on her. No, they didn't know of Tom. But they knew that, for some reason, thinking of _Harry Potter_ gave her a stoic expression. And Emma _liked _talking to Katie and Zac; they each gave her a reason to miss being in California, to miss her private cooking lessons and self-taught swimming lessons. She also liked Miley's quirky personality, much different than her British, prim and proper, lifestyle.

But the Franco brothers were new to her; she had not confided much with either one of them for the last nine days before going to London. Well … no, Emma reconsidered this moment when she took a seat by the bar, twirling her thin red straw in her dirty martini. She _had_ confided with them, in very different ways. With Dave, it was all fun and games and completely innocent. He was fun and quirky, just like Miley, and he liked to remind her that he had always had a crush on Katie.

But James …

James was _different_. He was highly intelligent, very thoughtful, and utterly and annoyingly _quiet_. His silence bothered Emma into havoc, but she managed to fill the silence of him being in her loft by busying herself around the apartment—organizing bookshelves, testing a new recipe, recording television programs. He watched her in silence, and she _loathed_ silence. He smiled thoughtfully, made soft comments here and there, and then made a random conversation with his eyes lighting up with interest as he explained his latest project to her. She liked how he was constantly moving, constantly trying new things. She liked a man who kept himself occupied.

Maybe she missed him; maybe she wanted to have a _sober_ conversation with him. Maybe she wanted to ask him how he knew she was suffering over Tom's decision to shatter her heart, but maybe she already knew.

Emma left these _maybes _to loom over her head like a cloud while continuously twirling her thin straw monotonously. She left these _maybes _to condense into a cloud, one day to trickle into a rainstorm, and slouched her shoulders when she felt the seat beside her take occupation to another guest.

_Tom._

There was no preamble, no introduction, no little moment for Emma to collect her thoughts and place her Noh mask in front of her shocked expression. Instead, his tantalizing blue eyes fell into the depths of her eyes. And he spoke with no hesitation and no tremble:

"We need to talk."


End file.
